The Reckoning

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  On closer enquiry, it was found that Einar had received a text message from a grandchild on the evening he died. The grandchild in question was a boy of thirteen, the son of Einar’s stepson. The boy had sent a message to ask if Einar would buy some toilet paper that he was selling to raise money for charity and, if so, could he come round to collect the money. Einar had texted back immediately to say yes. When the police got in touch with the boy and asked how his grandfather had seemed that evening, he said he had only stopped by briefly, for half an hour at most, as his grandfather hadn’t been feeling very well and said he needed to lie down. The boy added that he’d had no idea his illness was that serious. The boy’s name was Thröstur Agnesarson. When asked, he explained that his father was dead, and the police officer who handled the case apparently didn’t check up on this. Jón Jónsson’s name was never mentioned.

  The conclusion was that Einar Adalbertsson had died of an accident caused by his illness. The case was closed without further investigation and a death certificate was issued.

  Huldar stood up again. It looked as if he was going to have to book out the interview room for several hours in Thröstur’s case. The list of questions was growing ever longer.

  Erla hadn’t budged. She was still standing there, talking to the only member of the group left. He looked rather dismayed. When Huldar approached, the man seized the chance to melt away.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Huldar reached for a plastic cup, stuck it under the nozzle of the drinks machine and selected black coffee. The lettering on this button had worn off long ago, whereas those for latte and cappuccino were like new.

  ‘Good. Bloody good. Things are really starting to happen. I can sense it. We’ll have made an arrest by Tuesday. Worst case, Wednesday.’

  ‘Is that what you told the top brass?’ He watched the dark stream filling the cup.

  ‘Yes. Maybe I didn’t put it quite that strongly, but I said I was optimistic we’d be making an arrest shortly.’

  Huldar sipped the scalding coffee. Erla had made a big mistake, but there was no point telling her that. ‘Thröstur’s interview is going to be long and tough. We need to decide how to tackle him.’

  ‘That can wait. A few of us are going out for a meal. A celebratory pizza and beer. There’s a special deal on the drinks if we get a move on and order before seven.’

  ‘Who’s going?’ Huldar wasn’t sure he felt like it. Then again, he had nothing else to do; most of his friends had partners and children, and although they still hit the town on occasion, it was never spontaneous. They always needed several days’ notice, sometimes as much as a couple of weeks.

  Erla ran through the names of those going, but Huldar stopped listening in the middle; he’d made up his mind. ‘I’m up for it.’ He was hungry and wouldn’t say no to a beer or two. Perhaps this would help to restore his relationship with his colleagues, or with some of them at least. If so, it wouldn’t be a complete waste of time.

  * * *

  Three hours later he was still in the pub. They were seated around a large table. A few bits of leftover pizza graced the middle. The beers had long ago exceeded one or two and showed no signs of drying up. By now they were all talking louder, laughing harder and behaving as if they hadn’t a care in the world. With every round Huldar’s relationship with the others was slowly, slowly returning to the way it used to be before his temporary advancement. The music struck him as better now than when they had first arrived, the conversation more interesting. It seemed he wasn’t alone in this feeling as some of the others broke into tuneless singing whenever a familiar chorus was played, or drummed along noisily on the table.

  They all agreed that they should do this more often. And before long it was decided that from now on this should be a regular Friday event. Even those Huldar knew to be family men wholeheartedly endorsed this excellent idea. The next step wasn’t far off. They would begin to break up into pairs, each earnestly telling the other how great they were, and exchanging phone numbers so they could keep up their newfound friendship.

  A waiter arrived with a tray loaded with beers, prompting a new round of rejoicing. They raised their glasses and toasted some concept that none of them quite grasped, not even the person who had proposed the toast. When the glasses were banged down again, slopping froth all over the table, no one noticed or made any move to wipe it up.

  Erla, who had taken a seat next to Huldar, was much closer to him now than she had been at the beginning of the evening. It felt good and he sat tight, even resting his arm along the back of the wooden bench behind her. She didn’t seem to mind this in the least. When he felt her warm hand on his thigh, it seemed to him the most natural place for it to be. Until she shifted it somewhere else that felt even better.

  Huldar stroked her hand to make it clear that he didn’t object, though she could hardly have failed to notice the fact.

  And then there was no turning back.

  Chapter 24

  Kolbeinn had felt better but he had also felt a lot worse. He was floating in a state of numb detachment, but that was probably the lingering after-effects of the anaesthetic or else the painkillers they kept shovelling down his throat. While he packed his few belongings, he reminded himself to check that he would be given more of these pills to take home. Above all he felt comfortable; the worries that had been preying on his mind ever since the detectives were shown out of his room now seemed unreal and unimportant. Until the police had arrested the person who had chained that man to his car, it would be best if he was allowed to remain on this pleasant high. His wife Heida would be glad, at any rate. She had asked if he’d be very hurt if she went with her sewing circle on the planned weekend trip to London, despite the fact that he was a bit under the weather.

  A bit under the weather.

  Here he was, recovering from a heart attack, and she would rather go gadding off abroad than nurse him. She hadn’t even had the decency to come to the hospital to break the news, just did it over the phone. Yet aware as he was of her unfeeling behaviour, he couldn’t register any hurt through the fog of opiates. After their conversation was over, he had actually smiled like an idiot over the derisory state of their marriage.

  He had to secure a prescription for more of these miracle pills.

  There was nothing left in the locker or on the hideous bedside table. All his possessions apart from the clothes he stood up in were now stuffed into the orange plastic bag in which Heida had brought his things, when she’d finally bothered to show up. Kolbeinn had been lying woozily in bed when she held out the bag to him. And there he had remained throughout her brief visit. Heida had been too busy complaining to pay any attention to how he was feeling. And he was too doped up to comment on the plastic bag that she had unceremoniously plonked on his stomach. When she said goodbye she had bent over and kissed him on the brow, like an aged aunt with a nephew. As she did so her weight had pressed down on the bag, but she didn’t seem to notice and left without removing it from his middle.

  When he surfaced again after a nap, someone had emptied the plastic bag, hung up his clothes, put his toothbrush and toothpaste in a glass by the sink and placed his tablet on the bedside table. The battery was flat and Heida had either forgotten or couldn’t be bothered to find the charger. The same applied to his mobile phone, which was lying on top of the computer.

  Holding on to the bed for support, Kolbeinn slowly lowered himself into the chair. It was the only way he felt able to put on his shoes. As he pulled them towards him with his feet, he was confronted again by the sight of his odd socks. Through the haze of drugs a slight sense of resentment stirred against Heida. Was it too much to ask that she bring him matching ones? Not to mention some underwear? How could she mess that up?

  Instead of focusing on Heida’s shoddy behaviour, there were plenty of nice things to think about. Like the fact that the CEO of his company had phoned the ward personally to ask after him. A young nurse had passed on his wishes for Kolbeinn’s quick recovery when
she brought him his pills. He had swallowed them cheerfully, though at that moment he hadn’t needed any drugs to perk him up; it was enough for him that the CEO had called. He didn’t usually show much interest in Kolbeinn, merely nodded when they passed each other in the corridor, and on the rare occasions he did address him it quickly became clear that he had confused Kolbeinn with one of his colleagues. He always asked after the football star. Kolbeinn and Heida didn’t have any children, but the son of one of the departmental managers played for Iceland. Since Kolbeinn wouldn’t dream of embarrassing the CEO by pointing out his mistake, he had let it pass and scooted off as soon as he got the chance.

  He finished tying his shoelaces. Then he slapped his thighs, gripped the arms of the chair and propelled himself to his feet. No point in hanging about. He had been discharged: the hospital was like an oversubscribed hotel and there was no question of being allowed to stay any longer, however much he pleaded. The next patient was waiting outside and before Kolbeinn even left the ward he would have been wheeled into his place.

  Bag in hand, Kolbeinn shuffled out into the corridor. The man who was waiting to take his place was snoring, mouth wide open – obviously still alive. Apart from that all was quiet. It was evening and the other patients were asleep, knocked out by the sleeping pills that were distributed like sweets. Perhaps he should ask them to add some to his prescription; he’d need to sleep all weekend if he was to go back to work on Monday. Though he’d better not mention that again. When he had done so earlier that day, the doctor had advised him against it, recommending that Kolbeinn rest and take it easy for at least the next two weeks. Out of the question. He had to go in to work, if only to put a kibosh on the gossip. He must be the most popular topic of conversation in the office right now and he didn’t care for it.

  Kolbeinn stopped by a glass cubicle where a nurse was poring over some documents. She didn’t notice him until he tapped on the glass, then she glanced up and smiled. ‘All set then?’ He nodded and she smiled again: at last they were getting rid of him. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Well. OK. Ill. I don’t know.’

  ‘That’s not unusual. But you’ve turned the corner and you’ll make a full recovery, as long as you follow our advice and take it gently.’

  ‘Yes, will do.’ Kolbeinn wondered if he would have to ask for the prescription. The nurse didn’t seem about to give it to him unprompted.

  ‘Are you being picked up?’

  To his own surprise Kolbeinn answered without embarrassment: ‘No. I’ll take a taxi.’

  ‘OK. I can call one for you if you like.’ All of a sudden, the nurse remembered something. ‘No, silly me, I’m forgetting. When your boss rang earlier he said he was going to send a car for you. It may be outside now – I told him when you were getting out. You’d better check before calling a cab.’

  A foolish smile crossed Kolbeinn’s face before he could stop it. Perhaps the stories circulating at work were sympathetic after all. He was quite happy to play the victim, poor Kolbeinn – far better that than have them suspect him of being involved in the atrocity. The atrocity. It was the word he chose to use for the incident in the underground garage. It helped to distance him from what had happened. The atrocity. The word conveyed his respect for the gravity of the event, without conjuring up the grisly image of the mangled corpse or the ghastly sound of snapping bones. Overcome for a moment with dizziness, Kolbeinn tried to focus on the woman in front of him and banish all thoughts of what couldn’t be undone. ‘Can I get a prescription from you?’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right – the doctor who discharged you took care of that before he left.’ She retrieved the prescription from a cardboard pocket on the desk. ‘Is there someone who can pick it up for you tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes.’ He was lying; there was nobody he could ask. He would just have to go himself in the morning. He took the prescription she handed him, together with a paper bag containing some pills.

  ‘These should see you through tonight and tomorrow morning, until somebody can pick up your prescription.’ The nurse watched him pocket the note, reminded him of his next appointment at the Acute Cardiac Unit, then fell silent, waiting for him to leave. He stood there without speaking for a moment, then said an awkward goodbye.

  As he descended in the lift, Kolbeinn stared glassily at the man in the mirror, a stooped, lonely figure with a plastic bag in his hand, greasy hair and his shirt buttoned up wrong. His coat hung loose from his shoulders as if his body had shrunk while he was in hospital. He supposed he should be grateful he hadn’t been chucked out in the middle of the night like some of the other patients. And that he lived in Reykjavík. It wouldn’t have been much fun having to wander aimlessly around town with his plastic bag, killing time while waiting for the next flight to the other side of the country. He looked like a tramp and if the police spotted him they were bound to pick him up. The cops were good at that sort of thing; at dealing with minor offences. But they didn’t have time to post a guard outside his hospital room while he was lying there defenceless, despite the perceived risk. Unless the guards were down in the foyer?

  But there was no one at all down there; no staff, patients or visitors, let alone police officers. The shop was closed and apart from the rustling of his plastic bag, the only sound was the humming of the refrigerator units against the wall, loaded with all kinds of unhealthy snacks and drinks. Kolbeinn stared, as if mesmerised, at the gaudy sweet packets. He was met by his reflection again, this time in the windows of the horseshoe-shaped foyer. This was no improvement. You’d have thought he was a mental patient, standing there gawping at the illuminated vending machines like a child at a Christmas tree. The sooner he was home and in his bed, the better. There, no one would be able to see him in this state.

  He went outside, hoping to spot someone from his firm waiting for him. He couldn’t call for a taxi as his phone wasn’t charged, and the last thing he wanted was to have to go back up to the ward and ask the nurse on duty to call one for him.

  His worries proved unnecessary. There was a car waiting a short way from the entrance with its engine running. It flashed its lights at him. He couldn’t see the driver over the glare of the headlights, so he didn’t know which of his colleagues had been given the task of driving him home, unless it was just some taxi driver. He hoped it was the latter. It would be quite beyond him to make conversation with a colleague, who was bound to be eaten up with curiosity.

  Kolbeinn walked very slowly over to the car and climbed into the back seat. It occurred to him belatedly that he should probably have got in the front, but he hadn’t the strength to move. It couldn’t be helped. The driver didn’t say a word, just waited for Kolbeinn to close the door, then drove off. To Kolbeinn’s intense relief, the man seemed to be absorbed in some boring political discussion on the radio. The driver wasn’t one of his colleagues anyway, so it was unlikely their paths would cross again. Keeping quiet seemed to suit them both.

  When the car pulled up in front of Kolbeinn’s house he did at least make the effort to thank the man and say good night. The reply was a mumbled comment that he couldn’t quite catch. It didn’t matter. Kolbeinn slammed the door and hobbled up to his front door. When he bent down to retrieve the key that Heida had promised to leave under the mat, he thought it odd that he didn’t hear the car drive away. Perhaps the man wanted to make sure he got inside all right. What a kind thought. It would be handy too if Heida had been as remiss about the key as she had about other matters recently. But there was a gleam of metal when he lifted the mat. As he inserted the key and unlocked the door, he thought he heard the car door opening, and turned slowly to see what the man could possibly want. He hadn’t forgotten anything, except to pay. He had simply assumed that was all taken care of.

  If the driver was after money, he was going about it in an odd way. As Kolbeinn watched, the man lowered his head and came charging towards him like a mad bull. Kolbeinn reacted in slow motion; he heard himself say, ‘Oh,’ with calm
deliberation, but made no attempt to retreat. In the instant before the man shoved him in through the open door, the thought occurred to him that he would have been better off lying on a bench in the town centre with the plastic bag for a pillow.

  Chapter 25

  It wasn’t the first time Huldar had woken up in these circumstances. Yet he was as helpless as ever, too hung-over to think of any plan to take the edge off the inevitable embarrassment. Instead, here he was, lying naked in a strange bed, with no idea what to do next, only that it would be excruciating. He had stirred earlier, disturbed by the ringing of his phone, but, unable to face the new day, had gone back to sleep. Now he was awake. Not in the best of shape – but awake.

  Huldar cracked open one eye and surveyed his surroundings. He was alone in bed. That was good, but it meant he had no idea who he had shared it with last night. He wasn’t particularly keen to remember the identity of his bedmate either. He wanted to enjoy his amnesia a little longer. But then he spotted a shirt on the back of a chair. It looked as if it had been flung there from the other side of the room. The shirt was familiar, so familiar that he couldn’t suppress a deep sigh. It was a regulation police shirt, much smaller than his own, with shorter sleeves and a narrower cut. Huldar closed his eyes as memories of the previous evening came flooding back.

  Erla.

  He had beaten his own record in ill-advised shagging. He had only gone and slept with his boss. Her duvet was rucked up at the bottom of the bed, her pillow under his arm. Shoving it away, he tried but failed to roll over onto his back. He would be able to in a moment, but for now he would be glad if he could just pull the duvet up over his bare body. Although he was alone in the room, Erla couldn’t be far away and might appear any minute. It was sheer wishful thinking to hope that she might have gone outside and be sitting in her car, full of regrets, waiting for him to take himself off.